


The Untraveled Road

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonds, Gen, M/M, S1 Dean meets Castiel, Season 1, Time Travel, implied dean/cas, romantic friendships, subtextual Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set days after the events in Shadow (1.16) Dean and Sam are trying to get as far from Chicago as they can when an unexpected and yet familiar arrival throws their world into disarray. Dean didn't ask for a glimpse into his and Sam's future, and he's still not sure he wants one, especially not when his future self starts talking about angels and miracles, like either of those things could possibly exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a bit of a S1 kick and something has always bothered me about Hell House (1.17). I wanted to explore why neither Dean nor Sam had any scars after what went down in Shadow (1.16). I also wanted to combine my love for time travel fics with my desire to see S1 Dean meet Castiel. This is the result. Set after their encounter with the daeva in 1.16 but before their prank war in 1.17. Features romantic friendships and brotherly bonds. While non-Destiel fans may find this too shippy, this can easily be read as a gen piece.

I.

They ain't anywhere. 

Middle of fuck-nowhere Nebraska, half a pale yellow moon hanging in the sky. There are times, and Dean would never admit this to anyone, when the crisp clarity of the night sky feels more like home than their house in Kansas ever did.

Sam would probably understand. They spent half their childhood staring up at the stars, the slow passage of miles measured in countless constellations. Sam probably even knows their names. Dean's tempted to ask.

Except Sam's still staring fixedly ahead, anger rolling off him in waves. It's how he gets after a heated argument. It's how he was that time he left and didn't come back.

"We need to lay low a bit," Dean says, mostly to fill the silence. He's been around long enough to know this is bad, about as bad as it gets. Say the wrong word and their whole world might crumble.

The hood of the Impala is no longer warm. They haven't been here long--three beers by Dean's count, split unevenly between them--but already the haze of not moving is making him wish they'd stopped at a motel, somewhere with a hot shower and a warm bed; somewhere their fake credit card names won't attract the wrong attention.

Three days out of Chicago and Dean hasn't stop driving.

Sam doesn't say anything. They've had this fight already, Dad leaving a raw, gaping chasm between them. _You let him go, too_ , Dean wants to yell, but the fight's no longer in him. It's been too much for too long, the subject a festering sore neither of them seem ready to address.

Maybe Sam's right. Maybe they are cursed.

Cursed or not, they're short on options. With Dad gone they're back to square one, except now it's not as easy as finding him. Now they've got demons to worry about.

Dean swallows another mouthful of beer. They are definitely in over their heads. Not for the first time, he wonders if Sam's right, if Dad leaving really wasn't the best of plans.

The next pull finishes the bottle, which is probably for the best, because right then a bright flare of light fills the night sky, so blinding and so startling Dean drops the empty bottle. It knocks the fender before striking hard-packed earth, the glass shattering on impact.

"The hell," Dean manages, his vision a field of white. "Can't see a damned thing."

"Me either," Sam says. Dean feels rather than sees him slip off the hood, Dean chasing his warmth, aligning their bodies so that they're standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He hears Sam draw his weapon; after a moment does the same. A beat passes. Then another.

Dean has no idea how long they stand there, listening intently, waiting for their vision to clear. It feels like an eternity, so long that when the white does eventually begin to ebb, the first few dim shadows taking shape, Dean nearly sags with relief.

It lasts all of about three seconds.

He's not sure what he was expecting. A meteor? Aliens? He can't think of a single supernatural creature that fits blinding white light. Certainly he wasn't expecting to find himself staring at the figure of a man, half crouched, half sprawled in the dirt, not twenty yards from where they're standing. 

"I'll say it again. The hell?"

A quick glance in Sam's direction suggests he sees the guy too, his weapon coming up to pin the guy in place. Dean hesitates only briefly before doing the same. He gesture Sam left, then takes the right flank. 

The guy's still on his knees, swaying a little, looking on the verge of standing but also on the verge of collapsing, like however he got here wasn't exactly a pleasant experience. Dean moves around to the guy's head, outside of striking distance, but close enough for interaction. He clears his throat.

It's both a question and warning, so he's not at all surprised when the guy glances up. What does surprise him, perhaps even more than the startlingly familiar features, is the way the guy's eyes light up, like he's fucking delighted to see Dean, like Dean's just made his day or something.

It's really all the indication Dean needs. Whatever this guy is, he's not who he appears to be.

"I'm not too fond of people wearing my face, so unless you start talking, I'm gonna start shooting."

He can feel Sam's gaze shift, curiosity projected in his direction, but Dean keeps his gaze locked on his doppelganger, their run in with the shape-shifter still too fresh in his mind. Sam can't see the guy, but he must pick up something from Dean's tension, because a second later his gaze vanishes, his attention refocused on the thing between them.

"You need me to repeat that," Dean says, this time cocking his weapon. The thing shoots him a familiar grin.

"Yeah, I'll talk, but first, what's the date?"

Of all the things Dean expected the guy to say, that wasn't it. He frowns, feeling a little out of his depth. He lets his gaze flick up briefly in Sam's direction, enough to take in the resolve on Sam's face, his own hardening in response.

"So what, this a time travel thing? You gonna go all Terminator on me?"

The guys shifts, looking for a moment like he's gonna stand. He thinks better of it--or maybe isn't capable at the moment, Dean's not entirely certain--before sinking back onto his knees. His features contort, a brief flicker of discomfort coming and going so fast Dean's half convinced he imagined it.

"Less Arnold, more Marty McFly," the thing with his face says. Dean rolls his eyes.

"So where's your Delorean?" he asks.

He's not sure why he's talking to the thing: why he hasn't just shot it. Except maybe there's something about the guy that genuinely pings Dean's curiosity. Not that he believes its story, but this isn't anything like the shape-shifter. Yeah, the thing looks like him, but like an older version, more lines and, oddly, fewer scars--he's even missing the four sharp lines cut into Dean's forehead, the ones Dean suspects have permanently destroyed his good looks. Try as he might, Dean can't quite convince himself to pull the trigger.

Sam's spent the duration of their conversation slowly inching around, so that now he, too, can see the things face. He lets out a low whistle, but doesn't waver in the slightest, gun still pointed at its head.

"I'll ask again, what are you, and what do you want?"

The thing shakes its head. It pushes itself up so it's resting on its haunches, its expression patient, maybe even a little fond.

"Not that you'll believe me, and I don't care if you do, but I'm you, 2016, and I don't want anything."

Dean frowns at that. The thing shakes his head.

"Look, I'm just here to find someone, but the spell-work's a bit tricky. I needed an anchor." He gives Dean a pointed look.

"Right. There's a spell for time travel." It's not a question, but the guy answers all the same.

"There is, and under most circumstances I wouldn't recommend it, but like I said…"

"You're trying to find someone."

The thing nods, like this is a perfectly good reason to travel through time--not that Dean believes him--like all of this makes perfect sense.

It doesn't. The whole conversation is starting to give him a headache.

"Okay, let's say I believe you. Let's say you're me from the future and you've cast yourself back into the past, using me as an anchor." Out loud, it sounds even more preposterous. "Who are you looking for, and why not just tell us what you need done and then leave?"

That's how it's supposed to work. Travel back, warn your younger self, then disappear, future catastrophe averted.

"It's not that simple," the thing says, because of course it isn't.

"Then explain it, because you ain't going anywhere until you do."

Whatever the thing is, it obviously knows him, well enough to know Dean's not gonna back down. He spares a glance between them, Dean following its gaze to Sam, who no longer looks quite so sure, like he might actually believe the thing, like he isn't exactly comfortable pointing a gun at Dean's head.

Dean would be touched if he wasn't so annoyed.

If the thing catches either of their expressions, he doesn't show it, instead shaking his head, fond smile returning.

"Of course I gotta make this difficult," it says under its breath, loud enough for Dean to hear. It catches Dean's eye before continuing, something in its gaze giving Dean pause.

"Short version? A douchebag I intend to kill sent a friend of mine back to 2005. It is 2005, isn't it?"

He seems genuinely concerned about that, enough that Dean answers without hesitation.

"March 3, 2006," he says. The thing winces.

"Okay, close enough. Point is, we used a modified blood spell to get me here, and now I'm going to find my friend and bring him home."

On the whole it sounds reasonable enough, except Dean doesn't know anything that can send people back in time and this is the first he's heard of blood spells.

"You're a jumping point, okay? So I don't need anything from you. You go your way and I'll go mine, and in a few weeks I'll be gone and it'll be like I was never here, so unless you want me to share details on Ronda Hurley, I think we can safely say this conversation is over."

The name catches Dean off guard, enough that his weapon wavers, doubt taking seed in his heart. The thing offers him another grin. Dean clenches his jaw.

"You think I'm just gonna let you go? Even if you are who you say you are, I'm pretty sure having a future version of me running around isn't exactly a good plan."

Throughout all of this Sam has remained silent, seemingly content to let Dean lead the conversation. He clears his throat now, drawing attention to himself. Dean's startled to find he's holstered his weapon.

"He's right," he says, gesturing to Dean. "Whoever you are, we can't have your running around. You want to find this friend of yours, fine, but you'll do it with us."

The thing opens its mouth, probably to protest, but Sam keeps right on talking.

"But first we're going to have to run some tests." At this he pulls a silver knife from his pocket, the thin one Dean gave him for his eighteenth birthday.

The thing narrows its gaze, staring Sam down until finally it relents, a brief chuckle passing over its lips.

"Fair enough," it says, and offers an arm.

Dean retrains his gun at its head. He half hopes it'll give him an excuse to shoot, but it only sits perfectly still, allowing Sam to cut it, the silver having no effect on its skin, the cut as bright and as red as it would be on any other human. Next Sam pulls a flask of holy water from his inside coat pocket. Like the silver, the water has no effect.

"You guys work out Borax?" the thing asks when Sam is done. Sam cocks his head.

"Borax?" Dean asks, because that's a new one. The thing shakes its head.

"Never mind, maybe just remember that for next time."

He glances to Sam then, not Dean, a silence conversation passing between them. It ends with Sam nodding and the thing rising to its feet. Dean still hasn't lowered his weapon, and he's reluctant to do so now, except he can't exactly keep the thing under 24-7 surveillance.

He's still half tempted to shoot it. Instead he asks, "This friend of yours, who is he and how do we find him?"

 

II.

"Tell me you don't actually believe this guy," Dean says, his fingers curling around the steering wheel, his gaze narrowed against the rising sun.

They're halfway through Iowa, on their way back to Illinois, the last place Dean wants to go, except his doppelganger insisted, again bringing up anchors like Dean was supposed to make sense of any of it. He ain't touching Chicago with a ten foot pole, Pontiac still too close for comfort, but the sooner they get this guy where he wants to go the sooner Dean's going to get answers. Pontiac it is.

Sam's staring thoughtfully out the window. They pass the sign for Cedar Rapids before Sam's attention flickers back to Dean. He glances briefly into the backseat, where the man wearing Dean's face sleeps crumpled against the door, his head lolling against the window.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says, turning to stare straight ahead. "He doesn't just look like you. And not just you now, but you in like 10 years." He shakes his head. "It's more than that. He… I don't know, he feels like you."

The look Sam shoots him is apologetic, like he knows the explanation is weak. Dean arches an eyebrow.

"He feels like me?"

What the fuck does that even mean, anyway?

Sam sighs. His shoulders droop. "Look, when it was the shape-shifter, I knew it wasn't you. I mean, he looked exactly like you, and he sounded like you, and he had your memories, but I just knew it wasn't you. It didn't feel right. And I don't know. Maybe it's this whole…" He gestures then, shooting a wary glance into the backseat. Dean doesn't need him to spill it out, whole ESP thing ringing clear as day.

"It's definitely you," Sam says with growing certainty.

Well, fuck, Dean thinks, because it's one thing having a doppelganger wandering around with his face: another entirely having a future version of himself sitting in the car.

"Okay, let's say you're right. Let's say at some point I'm going to travel into the past, meet myself, and then force myself to take a cross-country road trip with myself so that I can find some dude I refuse to talk about. The hell, Sam? Does any of that make sense?"

Sam acknowledges the point with a grimace that does nothing to fuel Dean's vindication. Neither of them have asked the obvious: where's Sam? It's not exactly something Dean wants to think about at the moment. Ten years is a long damned time.

"Okay, you know what, we ain't doing this," Dean says, making a quick lane change to pull off at the next exit, into a truck stop with greasy eggs and ample parking. The other him jerks awake.

"We stopping?" he asks, sounding alarmed and more than a little gruff.

"Breakfast," Dean answers, because his stomach's been rumbling since they passed Des Moines and he ain't ever been one to skip breakfast.

In place of the argument he was expecting, the other him merely nods, a point in his favour.

In hindsight, it probably should have tipped him off to what was about to happen, but he's tired, damn it, been running on empty for close to three days now. Hell, he can't even remember the last time they stopped for food, everything up until now hastily bought in convenience stores and gas stations. He's worrying only about how they're going to explain their uncanny resemblance, not about his doppelganger going back on his word, bolting almost the second they're out of the car.

"Son of a…" Dean gets out before a hand on his arm stops him. He comes damned close to lashing out.

"Leave it," Sam says, like he knows something about how this is going to unfold. Dean's not so sure, but he relaxes a little when the other him slows, offering a cheeky wave before ducking into the convenience store attached to the gas station across the lot.

"Fuck it," Dean says with indifference he doesn't feel. He lets Sam lead him into the diner.

It's early enough only a handful of tables are occupied. Sam still leads him to the back of the room, away from the doors and kitchen, the booth he chooses affording them a clear view of the diner.

They've ordered drinks before Dean's duplicate arrives--to Dean's surprise--only a handful of heads turning to stare in his direction. He slides into the booth at Sam's side, dropping an armload of newspapers onto the table.

"Okay…" Dean says, mostly to break the silence. He's still trying to process the guy coming back.

"You looking for something in particular?" Sam asks, perking up at the sight of newsprint.

It's a better approach than Dean might have tried. So far they've got exactly nothing out of the guy, little more than, he's a friend, someone I care about, and I ain't leaving him behind. 

Dean, the other Dean, waits until the waitress returns, three coffees in hand. Her eyes flick between them, but when no one offers up an explanation she merely takes their orders and leaves.

"Since I can tell you're dying to ask, Sam's fine. The spell needs an anchor on both ends. Blood relation. I know I said I used you as an anchor, but more specifically I'm using Sam, and when I'm done here I'll use the other Sam, my Sam, to get home."

Dean still doesn't trust the guy, but the relief he feels hearing those words makes him glad he's sitting.

"And this friend of yours?" Sam presses. He's leaning eagerly across the table now, Sam in his goddamned element and Dean wishes he could see it.

"That's a little more complicated. The thing that sent him here was… powerful. It doesn't need a spell. It also didn't need a body."

Dean gets the feeling there's a hell of a lot his other self isn't saying.

"So what, they sent like his soul back or something?"

And thank god for Sam, ever curious, constantly questioning Sam, because Dean's not entirely sure he's up for this conversation. The other him nods.

"That's a good way of putting it, yeah, but it's more like projecting his consciousness back into a younger version of his… of himself."

A million questions pass over Sam's face, and Dean could guess at a few, but before he can ask the waitress reappears, two plates filled with bacon, eggs and fried potatoes balanced on one arm, a plate of fruit topped with cottage cheese clutched in the other hand. Sam waits for her to leave.

"So, Pontiac Illinois, that's where this guy lives?"

The other Dean nods.

"And you're gonna, what? Show up, find the guy and then…"

"Try to find a way to get his… consciousness back into my time."

Dean can tell Sam's still not satisfied. He hasn't even touched his fruit, unlike Dean--and other Dean--who are both halfway through their eggs, their bacon having vanished.

"But how do you know it's now? I mean you said this was close enough…"

"Look," other Dean says, holding up a hand. "I get you've got questions, and believe me, I would love to explain them, but right now all I'm worrying about is finding Cas."

It's the first time he's mentioned a name, Dean, against his better judgement, finding himself curious. Who the hell is this person? That he'd travel through time to save? Dean's got exactly two people in his life: Dad and Sam. He can't imagine adding anyone else to that list.

"So what's with the papers?" he asks around a mouthful of egg.

A long minute passes before the other Dean answers. Even then, Dean can tell he's holding something back.

"An event like this would have… consequences. There'd be signs, omens, things that might help me pin down where to look."

"I thought you said Pontiac?"

The other Dean shoots him an exasperated look. Dean's certain the same expression has crossed his features on more than one occasion.

"Look, I don't know a hell of a lot about his life before…" He seems at a loss for words. Dean allows it. "But I'm pretty sure it's not a life he would have stuck around for, so…"

"So Pontiac's only our starting part." Because of course it is. When isn't Dean looking for someone. Dad. The thing that killed mom. And apparently, if this guy is who he says he is, some guy named Cas.

"Alright," he grants, reaching for the first paper in the pile. "Got any idea what these signs might look like?"

The other him pauses, curious expression passing over his features, amusement coloured by uncertainty. It piques Dean's interest all the more, though he keeps his game face, staring his possible older-self down until eventually the other Dean concedes, raising his hands before reaching for a paper.

"This is gonna sound weird, but we're looking for anything that might be construed as a… well, a miracle."

Of all the things Dean's expecting to hear, miracles didn't fit anywhere on the list. If Sam's wide-eyed stare is anything to go on, it wasn't on his list either. They exchange a glance, several long seconds of silence descending upon the table before Dean finally brings himself to say what he's sure Sam is thinking.

"Sorry, miracles?"


	2. Chapter 2

III. (Sam)

"You're not going to tell us, are you?"

He's never been good at staring Dean down. Dad, sure, but Dean's always been different, Sam acutely aware of the things Dean's done for him. He meets this Dean's gaze unflinchingly.

And maybe it's because this isn't his Dean. It's definitely Dean--Sam can feel it--but this Dean is remote, a distant possibility too far removed for Sam to fully visualize. Still, this Dean has information. Things that might help. Like how to find the thing that killed Jess.

"I'm not," the other Dean says. His voice is lower than his counterpart, assured in a way his Dean only ever pretends to be.

Sam understands. Even without explanation he understands. He's read enough theory on the subject. Time travel has consequences. Still…

"Why the hell not? With your help we could find this thing. We could stop it."

You could tell me what's wrong with me, he desperately wants to add.

He's glad Dean--his Dean--isn't here, Sam shaking with, what? Desperation? Barely supressed rage? This isn't where he meant for this conversation to go. Cool, calm and collected. That was usually the best approach with Dean. Smoke him out. Get him comfortable and get him talking. Sam's solved more than one of their problems with patience and willpower.

Not this time.

"Look, I get it, okay." The look Dean shoots him suggests he really does, sympathy underlined with guilt. It's an expression Sam suspects this Dean wears often. It fits the lines of his face perfectly. "And believe me, I want to help. I want to tell you everything, because it's gonna get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. But that's the thing. It gets better. A lot fucking better, even when it's still fucked up and stupid, it gets better, and I can't risk that. I can't, Sam."

"Can you at least…"

He doesn't need to finish, Dean's features softening ever so slightly.

"I can tell you two things," he relents. "One, you will find the son of a bitch who killed Jess, and I will kill it. And two, there is nothing wrong with you, Sammy."

He's not entirely sure which of the two statements overwhelms him the most. Either way he's rendered speechless, his throat closing, heart pounding in his chest until his vision starts to swim. He means to demand elaboration, wants to know how they find it, where and when, and how they kill it when they do. More importantly, he wants to know what Dean means by there is nothing wrong with you. 

Unfortunately Dean--his Dean--chooses then to return from the restroom.

"You two ready?" he asks, his gaze lingering on his double. He's starting to believe--Sam can tell--open curiosity playing across his features, like he's desperate to ask his own set of questions but is holding back.

Drawing a shaky breath he doesn't bother hiding, Sam nods.

There's no argument. His Dean does the driving, casting only the occasional glance in Sam's direction that Sam immediately waves off. They're not doing this now. The other Dean takes up residence in the backseat like he honestly doesn't mind. It throws Sam a little, enough to plant a seed of doubt, but so far his whole ESP thing hasn't steered him wrong so he's pretty sure he can trust it with this. Besides, who knows what this Dean has been through. People change. Sometimes dramatically.

It makes him wonder, briefly, what his future self is like, but he can't bring himself to ask. Instead he stares out the window, letting his Dean merge them back onto the interstate, Pontiac a distant point on a map, nowhere they would have gone before last night.

 

IV.

"So, Cas Novak," Dean says, mentally filing the name away for later. If this guy's going to mean something to him, it's probably best he do as much research as possible. So far, what he's seen doesn't exactly impress.

Whoever this guy is, his life is about as far from Dean's as you can get. Dean can't even figure out how he met the guy, let alone what they have in common. Certainly it's not the idyllic little house in the suburbs. Or the neatly trimmed veranda. Or the perfectly manicured lawn. For fuck's sake the guy has NOVAK stenciled on the side of his mailbox. It's practically an insurance ad come to life.

Even as he thinks it the obvious dawns on him. People don't stumble into hunting. It drags them in, their initiation fueled by personal loss and heartbreak. He thinks he knows exactly how this Cas person came into his life, and if the minivan pulling into the driveway is any indication, he suspects he knows exactly who Cas lost.

The woman who emerges from the van is prim and proper, the exact opposite of every woman Dean's ever dated. Still, she's pretty. Clad in a dusty grey cardigan with her hair pulled into a loose bun, he might even call her attractive. Might, but can't. She wears her grief like some women wear makeup, her features heavy with it. Does she know what's coming, he wonders. Did this Cas guy forewarn her? Or did he just skip town because losing them again was too much to bear?

It is a them, he realizes, a girl, still on the cusp of adolescence, follows presumably her mother out of the van and into the house. Dean watches the door fall shut behind them, the street once again quiet. A quick glance in the rear view mirror suggests his counterpart has watched their arrival with equal curiosity.

Did he know them? Could he have saved them?

"Now what?" Dean asks, more to break the awkward silence than out of any real curiosity. His counterpart meets Dean's gaze in the mirror. Sharp lines frame the edges of his eyes. The passing of years looks strange on his face.

"He's not here," the other Dean says, a statement of fact, not an assumption.

"Okay," Dean says. "You want me and Sam to talk to the wife?"

Something dark and, if Dean's honest, a little terrifying flashes across his counterpart's features. It's gone so fast Dean's almost convinced he imagined it. The other him glances back out the window. Slowly he shakes his head.

"There's no point. She's not his wife," he says, like that should tell Dean everything, like there's a whole story buried somewhere inside those seven short words.

From the passenger seat, Sam shifts awkwardly. He's listening intently, but trying very obviously to stay out of the conversation.

"Okay," Dean says again, feeling like they're talking in circles. "I'll ask again: now what?"

The other him abandons his scrutiny of the house. He shifts, tilting his head back so that it's lying against the back of the seat, his eyes falling closed. For the first time since his arrival, he wears his distress openly, or, at least, open enough that Dean notices. It's not something he's comfortable sharing, so he averts his gaze, turning to stare back out the front windshield before turning the key in the ignition.

The thing is, he recognizes the expression: has worn it more times this last year than he cares to admit. This Dean has lost something important. Dean understands. He's felt the same way for pretty much the last year, Dad's absence a gaping hole in his life. It's how he imagines he'd feel if something happened to Sam. Whoever this Cas guy is, Dean's starting to think he needs to take this seriously.

Pulling away from the deceptive tranquility of suburban life, Dean starts back to the interstate and somewhere decent to crash.

Pontiac isn't that big of a place, so it doesn't take them long to find a hotel. Cheap rates and magic fingers, the motor court off 55 is practically a Winchester special. Dean pulls into the lot, parking under the glowing vacancy sign before cutting the engine. He glances in the rear view mirror, surprised to find his counterpart asleep in the backseat. Dean hesitates. He catches Sam's eye, nodding him out of the car.

Their leaving no doubt wakes up Dean's counterpart, but clearly the guy knows to give them some space. He shifts in the backseat, but his eyes remain closed, his head still lolling against the side of the window. Dean leads Sam towards the office, stopping just outside the door, beneath the long shadow of a setting sun.

"You still think this guy is me?" Dean asks, because he's starting to believe. Certainly nothing about the guy has pinged Dean's Spidey senses.

Sam glances briefly back to the car, where the other Dean is now watching them intently through the window, his hand rubbing absently at his breastbone.

"Actually, I'm sure of it," Sam says, turning back to catch Dean's eye.

Dean nods. "So we're going to do this? Put everything else on hold to help him find this friend of his?"

The look Sam shoots him is half fondness, half exasperation. He sighs, like he's long-suffering and Dean is the source of that suffering.

"If it was you," he says with more than a trace of irony. Dean acknowledges the point with a nod.

"Yeah, okay fine." He glances over Sam's shoulder to offer his counterpart a nod, tactile acknowledgement their private conversation is over. The other Dean rolls down the window.

"Get two rooms," he calls, not budging. Dean bristles, not because the other him seems to think he can command Dean to do his bidding--Dean gets the difficulty of the two of them occupying the same space--but because he may be willing to up-heave his life to help this guy, but that doesn't mean he trusts him, certainly not enough to let him out of Dean's sight.

He means to answer, to tell the other Dean exactly that, but Sam nudges him forward, forcing him into the office before he can get in a word edgewise. At the counter, Sam asks for two rooms.

"You're kidding, right?" Dean says when they're back outside. The other Dean's out of the car. He's got Dean's duffle from the trunk and is rooting through it, setting aside a change of clothes like he has a perfect right to them.

"Look," Sam says, still exasperated, "we're not all going to fit in one room and besides, don't you think it'll be a little easier not having him around?"

Sam's inference doesn't escape him. He taps the side of his nose, earning one of Sam's patented eye rolls. Dean shrugs it off with a grin.

He still escorts his other self to his room.

"You take off in the middle of the night and I will hunt you down," he says by way of warning, but the other him only smiles, fond and amused like he's heard this speech before and finds it wanting. Dean lets it go, but then spends ten minutes standing outside the guy's room, wanting him to know Dean's serious about the whole hunting thing. The door remains firmly closed.

It's the best he's gonna get and, besides, it's not exactly like he can stop himself from leaving if he wants to, especially not this older, presumably more experience version of himself. Dean shakes his head and ducks into his and Sam's room.

Sam occupies a hotel room in the same way Dad does--with sparse precision, nothing to indicate he was ever there. He hasn't unpacked, his bag stacked neatly by the bathroom, Dean's sitting on the end of the bed furthest from the door. He's got his laptop out and is sitting at the table, coat hung over the back of the chair. He gestures Dean over, but doesn't glance up.

"So get this," Sam says, grinning like a goddamned loon, like maybe something's gone their way for once. It's about damned time.

Dean gestures impatiently.

"About a year ago the Pontiac Police Departed started inputting their missing persons' reports into a searchable, online database."

"You're kidding," Dean says, because wow, talk about making their lives really fucking easy.

"It's part of an initiative to create a national database, provide easy access for multiple departments and media outlets during Amber Alerts, but that's not the good news."

Dean's already guessed the good news, but he still holds his breath. He has no idea why it matters--they already know who they're looking for, seeing his missing persons profile isn't going to change that. He thinks maybe he just wants to know what this guy looks like, get a feel for why his future self is willing to travel through time for the guy.

He's not at all prepared for what Sam pulls up.

It's not the picture that gives him pause--by all accounts the guy is pretty ordinary, exactly the kind of guy he'd expect to live in a quiet little house out in the suburbs and no one Dean would have ever expected to know, let alone befriend. What does give him pause is the name, because the guy's listed as a James "Jimmy" Novak, not a Cas Novak and Dean can't figure out how to get from one to the other.

"You sure this is the same guy?" he asks.

Sam nods. "Same address. Same wife and kid," he says, which about settles it.

"Okay, so what do we know about this Jimmy guy?"

Sam's grin widens. For a guy who nearly died a week ago and still has the scars to prove it, he's annoyingly chipper.

"And here I figured you'd have a thing for bad boys," he says, unfazed by Dean's glare. "Seriously, this guy is squeaky clean, and I mean squeaky clean. He married his high school sweetheart, his daughter's on the honour roll, hell, Dean, he volunteers at his church. He's practically a saint."

Sam flips the laptop shut as he says it, leaning back in his chair like he's waiting for Dean to protest. Dean doesn't. He has no idea who this guy is to his future self, but if his future self thinks a straight-laced, button down accountant is worth saving then he must be worth saving.

"So maybe the guy changed," he says instead because there's no way the guy Sam described would have anything to do with Dean.

"The question is, why, and…" He glances at Sam here, his words growing soft, the space between them fragile like is anytime they talk about mom and, now, apparently, Jess.

"If this guy's travelled back into his past, do you think there's a chance he's going to try to change it? I mean, if it was you, if you could…"

He gives an aborted gesture they both understand, Sam nodding ever so slight.

"Yeah. If I could go back, save Jess, absolutely I would."

And maybe that's why his past self is here. Maybe Cas saving his family has consequences and it's up to him to prevent it. As much as he hates to admit it, the scenario is far more likely than him making a friend.

"So if we're going to find this guy, we need to find out what happened, or rather, what's going to happen," Dean says, feeling somewhat less out of sorts now that they have a plan.

Sam pins him down with a stare. Dean has a feeling he's not going to like where this was heading. Sam arches an eyebrow. Yeah, he definitely doesn't like where this is heading.

"Why do I gotta talk to him?" he asks, even knowing the answer. "Seriously, Sam, do you really think I'm going to tell me anything?"

Sam offers a sympathetic shrug, like he's well aware of just how tight-lipped Dean can be. Dean makes a mental note to maybe share a little more in the future. Apparently someday he's going to need it.

"Look, I'm just saying I think if he's going to open up to anyone, it's going to be you." Sam shrugs again, like it's their best solution, like it's either this or get dragged along completely in the dark, entirely at the mercy of this future Dean and whatever secrets he's hiding.

"Son of a…" Dean says. He hates it when Sam is right.

 

V. (Dean)

"You know," Dean says to the empty room. He's got Cas' pendant clutched between his thumb and forefinger, Cas' grace the only source of light in the room. "You probably can't hear me without this, and I'm a little worried if I start praying I'm going to get the other you, so just... Wherever you are, sit tight and let me fucking find you."

It's as close as he's come to praying since he arrived, this whole trip a hell of a lot easier on paper. His younger self is… brash. Unpredictable. Not at all ready to meet Cas--or even know who Cas is--and yet…

Maybe it's that he still remembers what it was like when he and Sam first started hunting together. He remembers how much Dad missing hurt, not as much as it's gonna, but that's something else his younger self isn't ready for so Dean's not going to mention it--he's sure as fuck not going to do anything to change it, because he's done the whole trying to change the past thing before so he knows it can't be done. Him and Cas, they're the only variables here, the only thing he can change so as soon as he gets Cas back they're leaving, nothing but a few wiped memories the only evidence they were ever here.

Doesn't stop him from wanting to tell his past self everything. If he knew then what he knows now, never mind that this version of himself is still wandering around thinking everyone's going to leave him, that he'll end up alone and abandoned, just like always and Dean desperately--desperately--wants him to know that isn't true. Cas stays, he wants to say. A fucking angel of the lord stays because he sees something in Dean worth staying for and that's something he thinks his younger self probably needs to hear.

It's also something his younger self would never believe, even if he could let him keep his memories of this. Ain't life a bitch.

The knock on his door, sharp and impatient, is hardly surprising. It still startles Dean enough that he drops Cas' grace, the vial falling onto the bed where its glow highlights a particularly large stain on the bedspread. Better than fucking black light the stuff is.

"Hold on," Dean says, scooping up the pendant and slipping it over his head. He tucks it into his shirt where it bulges awkwardly against the fabric, then flicks on the bedside lamp before crossing to the door.

His younger self is standing there looking simultaneously nervous and determined, like he's had to talk himself into coming, like he's half expecting Dean to turn him away. Dean doesn't. He arches an eyebrow before stepping aside, gesturing his younger self into the room.

"You lasted longer than I expected," Dean says by way of greeting. His younger self scowls. "Look, I get this is weird for you..."

"I don't care about that. You want to find this friend of yours, fine, but you're going to have to level with Sam and me. I want to know everything there is to know about this Jimmy guy."

It's both a demand and a bit of gloating, like he thinks Dean ought to be impressed their research led them to Jimmy. If he only knew.

It rather makes the decision for him, because it's not like this Dean is wrong. He could do this on his own, but not with his past self running around behind him, shadowing his every move because he still doesn't trust Dean's intentions. Like it or not he needs this Dean. Besides, it's not like anything he says here will matter. As soon as he finds Cas, it'll be like none of this ever happened.

"You might want to sit for this," he says, a brief flicker of fear crossing his counterpart's face. Dean shakes his head. "Or not, whatever," he says, choosing to occupying the end of the bed. At least one of them ought to be sitting.

"Cas isn't Jimmy," he starts with a pang of guilt. He remembers Jimmy. A nice guy. He didn't deserve what happened to him, even if Dean wouldn't trade Cas for anything.

The remark perplexes his younger self, Dean can tell, his brows furrowing, his mouth flattening into a thing line. There's apprehension in his features, like he doesn't think he's going to like where this conversation is going. Dean gestures to the chair. After a moment's hesitation, his younger self takes it.

"Cas is just kind of... using Jimmy's body."

He knows exactly how it sounds the second he says it, but he doesn't clarify. Better to let his younger self work to the inevitable--and wrong--conclusion before introducing him to a whole world he doesn't know exists.

"So where the hell's Jimmy?" the other Dean asks, righteous indignation in his tone. It reminds Dean painfully of a time when everything was still black and white.

"Right now? Stuck inside with Cas. In my time, Jimmy's dead."

That much he's sure of, Cas having had no reason to lie. This… this is going to be a little more awkward.

"It's part of why I need to find him, you know? Jimmy… He doesn't meet Cas for a few years, and he deserves those years, you know?"

His younger self is wearing a frown, his expression growing dimmer by the second. Dean gets that, he really does, because there ain't a lot that can occupy a person's body, at least not at this point in his life.

"Cas ain't a demon," Dean says, taking pity on his younger self. It earns him a narrow gaze.

"Then what is he?" the other Dean asks, like he's already convinced Cas can't be human, like he's already plotting how best to kill him.

God, how things have changed.

Dean doesn't answer right away. He lets the moment stretch out, mostly because he can't quite bring himself to broach the subject, but also because he's savouring the look on his younger self's face: is anticipating the confusion that will soon take its place.

He waits just until it looks like his younger self is about to lose his patience and then, smiling, and without a trace of irony, Dean leans forward on the bed and says: "You believe in angels?"

The look his younger self shoots him is all the answer Dean needs.


	3. Chapter 3

VI. (Castiel)

Cas had forgotten Jimmy.

Well, perhaps not forgotten. He remembers Jimmy, knows the sacrifice he made; occasionally regrets allowing him to make it. But he doesn't remember Jimmy, the way he sat just under the surface, quietly subdued but present at the same time. Cas has been so long without Jimmy that he'd come to think of his vessel as his, an angel with a body, occupying physical space as though it were a condition of existence.

The vessel isn't his anymore. Jimmy rails against him, a quiet screaming that cuts Cas to the core. It's worse, he thinks, than the dull ache that beats in the centre of his chest, the loss of his grace a familiar wound. Cas sets the heel of Jimmy's hand against it and rubs gentle circles. Jimmy's lungs constrict.

He doesn't remember breathing being this difficult. Remembering to eat, to sleep, to urinate: these required effort and attention. Not breathing. That came naturally before, the body performing the function as surely as it pumped blood through the veins. Cas has no idea what's different this time. Jimmy, he thinks, is panicking.

"It's alright," Cas says to an empty room, though he doesn't think Jimmy can hear him. Certainly this isn't Cas' first attempt at conversation.

As before, there's no answer, only the hollow, echoing silence of an empty cabin set deep in the remote reaches of Black Hills National Forest. He's been here three days, and this is the first time he's spoken. The words hang in the room, awkwardly intrusive. They do little to ease Jimmy's discomfort.

If I could give you back your life, I would, Cas thinks furiously, surprised to find he doesn't just mean now. What before would have been as simple as flicking a light switch is now utterly impossible, Cas as imprisoned as Jimmy, lost until either Metatron undoes what he did or Castiel arrives to claim the vessel. Cas isn't sure which option he prefers.

Is the latter even possible now? Surely Jimmy will say no, now that he knows what it means to submit to an angel. Just how badly has his presence here damaged the timeline?

You can change it entirely, a traitorous part of his brain whispers. Cas would like to believe that's Jimmy, but he knows better. This isn't the first time he's considered interfering, stopping the apocalypse before it has the chance to begin. Cold Oak is a little over twenty miles from here. Cas could be there in a day. A year from now, maybe less, Sam will show up, the boy king not yet born. He could stop Sam from dying; stop Dean from ever making that deal.

As options go, it's not exactly a bad one. Certainly it beats hiding in the woods because, like it or not, Cas is still an angel and the remnants of his grace attracts the wrong kind of attention. There is a reason, he suspects, his wandering brought him here.

At the very least he could stop staring up at a water stained ceiling, contemplating his next move.

"It won't work you know," Cas says, like he's having a conversation with Jimmy and not talking to himself. "You can't change the past."

Cas knows this better than most.

The wind has picked up outside, a fierce howling that rattles the cabin's windows. A storm is coming--Cas can feel it--but that's not what draws his attention. He sits bolt-upright in his borrowed bed, the air around him crackling with electricity. It should be impossible, and yet without a doubt it is his grace, too far off to pinpoint, and yet undoubtedly here, in this time.

He has no idea how Dean managed it, but it couldn't have been anyone else. Trust Dean to do the impossible. 

The ache in his chest, the one he thought permanent, eases. Cas inhales. Mildew and rot fill his lungs, but neither detract from the gentle pull that is Dean's arrival. He's moving before he realizes it, autonomic function taking over--far easier than breathing--Cas halfway out the door before it occurs to him to wait for morning.

His grace--and presumably Dean--lie somewhere to the south and east of here, far enough off to spike Cas' worry, but close enough that he can't bring himself to delay. Outside, there's a decided nip in the air, not rain, but snow. Cas draws Jimmy's overcoat tight around his waist and regrets, not for the first time, fleeing Jimmy's home without packing provisions. Too late for that now. Cas starts for the road.

There's a town a few miles back, tiny little place nestled between rolling hills. Cas passed through it on his way to the cabin, staying only long enough to prevent a minivan from colliding with a dump truck. He may not have his grace, but he is still an angel. Chance and luck still bend to his will. Sometimes they bend whether he wants them to or not. Not exactly an advantage for someone looking to hide.

He hasn't the luxury of hiding now. Cas quickens his pace.

Ten minutes down the road, the sky opens, fat snowflakes swirling around him. They melt as soon as they hit the ground, but that won't last long. By the time he reaches the town the ground is thick with it, his toes numb with frost.

There's no one about--not unusual given the hour--but it still gives Cas pause. There ought to be at least a handful of people starting their day. Even the occasional light in a window would ease his apprehension. Instead there is only darkness. That and echoing silence. He slows his steps, following the bend in the road to where a cedar-shingled motel sits adjacent a diner and gas station.

All of his instincts tell him something is wrong.

It's not just the stillness, though it is unusually quiet--there aren't even birds--but rather a heaviness in the air that has nothing to do with the weather. He wasn't here in the months leading to Dean's deal--though if he recalls correctly, it is for John these plans were set in motion. His knowledge of coming events is limited entirely to briefings and status updates. The view from the trenches paints a very different picture. 

The last time he was through here the diner was teaming with people, the parking lot filled almost to capacity. It's late enough now that the diner ought to be open, but its windows are dark, the parking lot empty. Same for the gas station next door, not a single car, and while the red vacancy sign flickers in the motel's office window, it too appears deserted. Cas keeps a wary eye about him, and heads in search of a payphone.

He finds one adjacent the diner, set a little ways from the road. Tactically, he doesn't like it, but so far nothing he's seen indicates an impending threat and, besides, given the circumstances it's not like he has much choice. Still, he scans the area thoroughly before stepping up to it, positioning himself to maximize his field of view.

Jimmy had exactly eighty three dollars and fourteen cents on his person when Cas arrived. The funds bought a one way ticket out of Pontiac and enough supplies to last him the better part of a month. Since then Cas has been living off the kindness of strangers. That's not an option now, which leaves only Jimmy's credit card, something Cas has been loath to use. He has no doubt Jimmy's family is still looking for him, the police likely monitoring the cards, but drastic circumstances call for drastic measures, so Cas cradles the receiver between his shoulder and his ear and charges the call.

Or rather, tries to, the call not connecting. Too late it occurs to him the earliest number he has for Dean is still three years into the future. Cas disconnects and tries another number.

Bobby Singer doesn't seem like the type to change his number often, so it's not a surprise when the line connects. Cas listens intently to the ringing--it is ridiculously early--not entirely sure how he feels about speaking to the man Dean once considered a second father. Bobby has been nothing but kind to Cas, and though Cas wasn't around to experience his passing--missed even Dean's grief--something akin to anguish settles in his chest, worse even than the ache of his missing grace. It's one of the reasons he decided against seeking out Bobby in the first place.

It's also distracting enough that he doesn't immediately notice the appearance of two men through the diner's side door. It's only when the line connects, Bobby's gruff, "what," echoing over the line, that Cas registers what he's seeing. He may not have his grace, but it doesn't take an angel to spot a couple of demons, all that filth rolling beneath their borrowed skin.

Too late it occurs to him they're likely here preparing for Cold Oak. And here Cas thought he could slip in unobserved, stop coming events before they were ever set in motion. How foolish of him.

"Bobby," Cas says into the receiver, speaking just under his breath. The demons exchange a glance. "I can't answer your questions right now, but I need you to get a message to Dean."

It's evidently the exact wrong thing to say, the name drawing the demon's attention, the pair starting towards him like they mean to bleed the information from him. Bobby's not doing much better, demanding answers that Cas doesn't have the time to give.

"Look," he interrupts with more force than he intended. He just needs Bobby to listen, especially since the demons are now close enough to smell their sulfur. "Just tell him… um, funkytown."

He doesn't get anything else out, the first demon--his meat suit the larger of the two--stepping up to pluck the phone from Cas' grip. He offers Cas a twisted smile, and then presses the receiver to his ear.

"He'll have to call you back," he says before slamming the receiver home. Cas doesn't get a chance to object, the second demon squeezing in behind him and then all Cas knows is a sharp point of stinging pain before blackness.

~*~

He's groggy when he wakes, which means they've drugged him, the lingering numbness not entirely unpleasant. More importantly, he's not alone.

"Well, there's one mystery solved," he says under his breath, taking in the collection of men, women and children all huddled together in the dampness. Cas stays where he is, slumped against the wall. Avoiding notice seems as good a strategy as any. He surveys his surroundings.

They're underground somewhere. Given the air exchange and the rate of architectural decay, he ages the structure somewhere around the 1950s. Another bunker maybe? Either that or an abandoned fallout shelter and given where they are, the latter does seem more likely.

But why here? What could a couple of demons possibly want with an entire town. The people around him aren't possessed. They're not hurt either. They're just huddled down here, clearly afraid, whispering together and clinging to each other in the vast, unending darkness.

A surge of righteous indignation surges in his veins. When he gets his grace back, the first thing he's going to do is smite those demons.

They've thrown Cas in with the rest of them, which means they don't know what he is--likely thought he was one of the townsfolk, someone they missed. He has no idea why they didn't just kill him, why they went to the trouble of drugging him and dragging him here, but he's not about to question his luck. Instead he struggles to sit, a man beside him rushing to his aid.

"Easy there," he says, Cas nodding his thanks. Numbness still weighs at his limbs, but at least his chest no longer aches, the dull throb of his missing grace blessedly absence.

It strikes Cas then that he can no longer feel his missing grace. Definitely a fallout shelter.

"Do you know what they want?" Cas asks when he's able. His throat is dry, gravelly. He clears his throat twice before accepting proffered water.

"What who wants?"

"The demons," Cas says without thinking. The man frowns, concern settling over his features.

"You may just want to give it a minute," he says, like the passage of time is somehow going to make everything clear. Wisely, Cas keeps his mouth shut. He takes another sip of water before scanning the room again.

The fear, he realizes, isn't directed at any particular threat. They aren't afraid of the people keeping them here. Cas is starting to doubt there is anyone keeping them here. But why would an entire town voluntary cloister in the darkness? It doesn't make any sense.

He doesn't get a chance to ask for clarification, the demons who brought him here returning. The man at his side jumps up at their arrival.

"Any word?" he asks.

"Nothing good," the demon says, his words slick like oil on water. Cas tries desperately to fade into the background, not wanting to draw their attention. So far they don't know what he is, but should that change…

"We've still got plenty of potassium iodine, but it could be a couple of days before we get enough entolimod for everyone," the demon continues, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place. Entolimod is a radiation countermeasure. These people are here voluntarily. They think their town has been exposed to radiation.

Dean is right when he says Cas isn't very good at subterfuge. It's not something that comes naturally to angels, so it's hardly a surprise when the demon notices him. It takes considerable effort not to call him out, to demand answers even when those answers would likely result in panic fueled pandemonium. Instead Cas sits a little straighter; meets the demon's gaze.

"He been seen by the doctor yet?" the demon asks, gesturing in Cas' direction. The man he's with shakes his head. "I'll take him."

It occurs to Cas then he has two options: fight or submit. Every fiber in his body is telling him to fight, but there are still women and children about, all of them frightened, all them convinced they've survived a near apocalypse. Cas submits.

There is no doctor, of course--or if there is that's not where the demon is taking him. The demon has offered an arm, helping Cas from the room and leading him down a long tunnel towards, from the sounds of it, the air filtration system. His grip is iron tight, Cas not sure he could break free even if he tried.

"Where are you taking me?" he asks at one point, his tone scathing. The demon laughs.

"Got a few questions for you," he says, like he knows all of Cas' secrets, like he can see right through him, like the faded echo of his grace sits openly on display.

Cas very much doubts he'd be alive if that were true.

The room in which the demon deposits him is a tiny storeroom, bare shelves meant to be lined with canned goods and toiletries. Someone has placed a metal folding chair in the centre of the room. This obviously isn't their first interrogation.

"Like I said," the demon says, tossing Cas towards the chair. "Just a few questions. We can't be too careful."

He doesn't stick around, leaving Cas to linger in the room, the door closing firmly shut behind him.

It's locked from the outside, naturally, and a quick survey of the room's interior reveals nothing of use. Ten minutes into his stay, Cas gives in and takes a seat on the chair. Ten minutes after that, the door swings open.

He recognizes the demon immediately, an unexpected spike of nostalgia, perhaps even fondness spiking in his chest. It takes considerable effort not to smile. This isn't the same Meg who helped him in his time of need. It's definitely not the same Meg who flirted with him shamelessly, her underlying insecurities worn on her sleeve. This Meg is whole, powerful. This Meg would crush him beneath her boot if she knew what he was. Cas wants to smite this Meg more than he's ever wanted to smite anything.

"Well, well," she says, coming into the room. "What have we here?"

She circles around his chair, examining him like she might a horse at auction. When she's done, she stops before him, far, far too close for comfort, and then squats down, her gaze narrowing as she scrutinizes his features.

"You know, I went to a lot of trouble clearing out that town. We even put up road blocks to keep people out. So here's what I want to know: who are you, and how did you get here?"

There are a dozen or so ways Cas could answer that, but he's fairly certain all of them will get him killed. In the end, he settles on a half-truth, one designed specifically to attract her interest.

"I have a better question," he says, affecting his best Dean impression. "Why have demons moved an entire town underground?"

A brief widening of her eyes gives away her surprise. It lasts only a second, and then she's smiling, like she's secretly pleased he knows she's a demon.

"Oh, I knew you were special. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you're a hunter?" She scoffs when she says it, like she has yet to meet a hunter worthy of her time. Cas maintains her gaze, but doesn't answer.

"The real question," she continues, "is how many others do you have with you? You don't happen to know any of the Winchester boys, do you?"

He doesn't react, but something must have shown in his features because Meg's smile grows wider. She catches her bottom lip in her teeth, like Cas' reaction is the most delicious thing she's heard all day.

"I've heard of them," Cas finally relents, hoping it'll be enough. Meg's smile grows teeth.

"Have you." She gestures to the demon standing inside the door, the demon vanishing, returning a moment later with a long coil of rope. "You know, I think I'll tie you up after all," she says, which, given the options, Cas will gladly take.

She lets the other demon do the work, watching from across the room, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. She waits until he's firmly secured before pulling a wallet out of her back pocket and flipping it open.

"I'll tell you what, Jimmy, if that even is your name." Her tone suggests she doesn't believe it is. Cas doesn't correct her. "Since you're going to be here for a while, I'll give you something to chew on. This," she gestures widely, meant, Cas suspects, to encompass the entire bunker, "is an experiment, and we needed guinea pigs. They're so much easier to manage when they're cooperative, don't you think?"

She doesn't say anything else, striding from the room, the other demon hot on her heels. He closes the door behind them, though not before Cas overhears Meg demanding a cell phone. It is entirely possible, Cas thinks, some good may come of this after all.

He just hopes Dean realizes they are very likely setting a trap.

 

VII.

"Angels," Dean says, not bothering to hide his disbelief. He still has no idea where this conversation is going, save that apparently this Cas fellow is riding around in someone else's body and nowhere in Dean's book is that a good thing. About the only thing Dean knows that can swing that is a demon.

"Cas," his future self says, a brief flicker of amusement passing over his features. He pauses then, a soft, fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's the same smile Dean reserves for Sam: a smile he'd rather like to wipe of his future self's face. His next words change all that rather quickly.

"Castiel is an angel."

There's not a hell of a lot that surprises Dean, not anymore. Certainly he's never been rendered speechless before. Not that he's speechless now, but he'd wager good money he's doing a pretty good impersonation of a fish.

"Castiel," he repeats, "is an angel…"

It's easily the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, so much so that he's not entirely sure where to start. If this guy is him--and Dean's starting to doubt again--then he knows damned well there's no such thing as angels, so whatever this Cas--Castiel--guy is, it sure is hell ain't that.

"There are angels," his future self says, eerily -calm, like he's had this conversation a dozen or so times, like he's patiently explaining the existence of atoms to a small child. Dean scowls.

"Right, cause there's so much good in the world..."

Angels... God... It's all bullshit. Ain't nothing but random chaos and destruction and he's not about to let some guy wearing his face convince him otherwise.

The guy wearing his face shakes his head. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say the guy was disappointed.

"I don't expect you to believe. I sure as hell didn't, but there are angels and Cas is one of them and I am going to find him."

He brings a hand to his chest as he speaks, idly fingering the pendant around his neck. It's too big to be the necklace Sam gave him, but the tie looks the same, corded leather band tied in a thick knot.

"Okay, let's say I believe you," Dean says, the lie heavy on his tongue. His future self arches an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. "How exactly did I meet an angel?"

He's expecting flippancy, maybe a bit of cheek--god knows Dean can be an ass. What he's not expecting is sullen silence, darkness passing over the other Dean's features, like the memory is not only unpleasant but unrepeatable. Dean raises a hand to wave off the question.

"It doesn't matter how we met. What matters is finding him, so either help me or stay out of my way, because I'm not leaving here without him."

There's something about the way he says it that sends chills down Dean's spine. Up until now the guy hasn't once given him reason to doubt his story--the whole believing in angels thing not withstanding--but Dean can't imagine a future that would warrant such intensity, the guy sitting across from him now vaguely terrifying.

He means to answer, to reaffirm their intent to help--because angel or no angel he's sure as hell not leaving this guy alone, never mind that he wants to see for himself what this Cas guy actually is. He doesn't get the chance, a soft knock echoing in the room. Dean startles, and then kicks himself for looking like an idiot in front of what is still possibly a future version of himself.

"It's Sam," his future self says like he's fucking psychic. It takes Dean several seconds to realize that, yeah, he too recognizes Sam's knock.

"It's open," he calls over his shoulder, not wanting to move from his spot at the table. He feels a little like he and the other Dean are locked in showdown, first one to move the first one to die. Dean shivers a little. He's fairly certain it goes mostly unobserved.

Sam steps quickly into the room. He's got his cell pressed to his ear. The other Dean rises from his spot on the bed, clearly alarmed. Sam shakes his head.

"Yeah, hang on, Bobby, I'm going to pass you to Dean."

He pulls the phone from his ear, making eye contact and covering the mouthpiece before speaking.

"It's Bobby. He's been trying to call you all day," Sam says. Dean checks his phone, unsurprised to find the battery's gone dead. When was the last time he had a chance to charge it?

Tossing the useless phone on the bed, he makes a grabby motion for Sam's phone. Sam hands it over. His future self remains standing, hovering now, his attention focused entirely on Dean.

"Hey Bobby, sorry about that, what's up?"

There's a brief pause on the other side of the line, a lag maybe, either that or Bobby's gathering his thoughts. When he speaks, it's with the gruff frustration of someone who's spent an entire day fretting over something that didn't need fretting.

"Got a strange call this morning," he says, "and thought you'd want to hear about it."

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam. "Okay," he says.

"No clue who the guy was, but he specifically wanted me to get a message to you."

Dean frowns, because why would someone call Bobby instead of him--hell, even Sam if they couldn't get through to Dean's cell.

"Okay, and the message?"

Bobby clears his throat. He sounds more than a little uncertain. When he speaks, it's with a hesitancy Dean's not sure he's ever heard before.

"He wanted me to tell you... funkytown."

The word doesn't just give Dean pause. It sends shivers down his spine. It's also clear Bobby has no idea what it means. There's only one other person who knows that code, and that person is standing inside the doorway, watching Dean curiously, like he hasn't already asked Bobby his own set of questions. Dean swallows.

"You trace the number?" he asks. At the end of the bed, his counterpart is practically vibrating with frustration. Dean's half surprised he hasn't tried to snatch away the phone.

"Call wasn't long enough, but whoever the guy was our conversation was cut short. There was someone else with him. Not exactly friendly if you know what I mean."

Dean nods before remembering Bobby can't actually see him. He clears his throat. "Yeah, okay, thanks Bobby. You gonna be around?" he asks.

"I ain't going anywhere," Bobby says.

"Okay, sit tight, we might need some help on this."

He disconnects the call, tossing the phone back to Sam before he notices his counterpart's expression. There's darkness there, but more apparent is grief, a deep, unending sorrow that momentarily takes Dean by surprise. Dean meets his gaze.

"Bobby got a call this morning. Guy didn't say who he was, but he used one of Sam and my code words, indicating he was in danger. The call ended abruptly."

Dean's spent a lifetime staring at his reflection in the mirror, hating what he saw, but familiar at least with his every expression. He recognizes the one that settles over the other Dean's feature. It's the same one Dean wears every time Sam gets himself into trouble.

"Bobby didn't get a trace, but if we're going to find this angel of yours, Bobby's probably the best person for the job."

Had he not been watching his counterpart closely, he might have missed the slight wavering of his expression, Dean staring into the face of a man teetering on the edge of breakdown. He wants to ask, but at the same time he doesn't want to know--can't contemplate a world in which Bobby is dead. Instead he shifts his gaze to Sam, just in time for Sam's mouth to fall open, his eyes growing wide.

"Angel?" he says, with more hope than trepidation. Dean curses under his breath.


	4. Chapter 4

VIII. (Castiel)

"John, John, John. You're a very hard man to get a hold of, you know that?"

By Cas' count, this is Meg's fourth message. Granted, he missed the ones she made in the hall. How she's getting cell reception down here is beyond him.

He hasn't actually met Dean's father, and doesn't particularly want to. Fathers are... tricky. His own, certainly, but he's heard enough of Dean's stories to know John Winchester is a... complicated man.

Cas is being over-generous.

Why John Winchester and not Dean, he wants to ask, but he already knows the answer. In her eyes he undoubtedly looks closer to John's age than Dean's, and since she's already figured out he knows the Winchesters, it's only natural she'd assume John ranked first on that list. After all, at this point in time they still think John is the righteous man. He's half tempted to dissuade them of the notion. From what Cas has heard, John is many things, but righteous isn't one of them. Even if they had broken him, Lucifer's seals would have remained intact. John Winchester was never the man they needed. It's always been Dean.

It's a sentiment Cas is entirely too familiar with.

They haven't started torturing him, yet. That'll come. He's been through this enough times to know exactly how it's going to work. Meg will keep calling, doing her best to get John on the phone so that she gloat about luring a hunter into her trap. John will deny knowing him--not a lie--and Meg will get frustrated, start hurting Cas over the line so that John can hear him scream.

He doesn't think John will care.

Would he, he wonders, if he know who Cas was and the role he played in his sons future lives? Maybe. But it's still doubtful. John is a man on a mission, a mission that's going to get him killed, but until then he's not exactly going to let an unknown hostage get in his way.

It is entirely possible Cas is being over-critical. It's hard to tell. He's not exactly objective where Dean's concerned.

Meg is watching him now, disconnected phone still clutched in her grasp. She can't make sense of his presence here and it's bugging her, which is probably the only reason he's still breathing.

"You know," she says, pocketing the phone. "I don't think John is coming for you." 

She closes the distance between them, getting into his space in a bid to elicit discomfort. Cas remains impassive. This isn't the Meg he knows--that Meg was lost and desperate, a mangled soldier at the end of a long and bloody battle. This Meg is new to the trenches, still high on the promise of war. This Meg should terrify him, but while the gratitude he feels for her future self doesn't extend to the here and now, the only emotion she elicits is faint amusement.

He very firmly reminds himself that underestimating this Meg will undoubtedly get him killed.

"Why would John come for me?" Cas asks, honestly curious. The notion is somewhat ludicrous.

It's also not the answer Meg was expecting. She cocks her head, staring at him the same way Uriel used to stare at humans, like he's beneath her and she's trying to decide how best to squash him beneath her boot.

"You did say you knew the Winchesters, didn't you?"

"I said I knew of them. It's not exactly a large community, if you know what I mean."

He sees Meg for what she is, the demon beneath her borrowed flesh seething with frustration. Her meatsuit frowns, conveying only disappointment. Cas watches the interplay with detached boredom. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. More interesting is the puzzle of what he's doing here.

He's still tied to a chair, his hands secured behind his back. Coarse rope digs into his skin. The room smells like damp earth and the rolling sulfur of demon possession. Through the door and down a long line of hall, dozens of people still cloister in the dark, afraid of whatever story sent them fleeing into the arms of demons. Demons don't need a reason to sow chaos, but this isn't chaos. It's controlled. Planned. And if Meg's involved then Azazel's involved, which means Lucifer's involved.

What are they hoping to accomplish? More importantly, how did Dean miss this the first time around.

"Am I boring you?" Meg asks, getting further into Cas' space. He catches a whiff of brimstone, Meg still newly risen. The hollow emptiness that was his grace recoils in disgust. Cas meets her gaze with a level stare.

"A little," he answers in earnest. Meg's lip twists, becoming a snarl.

"Then let me ask you this: if you're not going to bring me John, what good are you?"

He spots the glint of silver almost as soon as the blade comes to her hand, kept if he's not mistaken in a holster she keeps up her sleeve. It moves lightning-fast and with accuracy that should be deadly--and certainly Cas expects to die--but isn't, Meg stopping short, razor sharp point pressed tight against the hollow his throat.

He spends a long minute pondering what his death will mean to the timeline. Will Castiel take Claire instead? Or will he return to this point, prevent this moment from happening? Cas half expects the room to fill with light. Instead Meg lowers the knife, her expression contemplative.

"Although..." She glances over her shoulder then, making eye contact with the demon by the door.

"We do need a volunteer."

The demon smiles. Meg straightens. The knife has already disappeared back up her sleeve. The smile she shoots Cas is pure acid. There is nothing there worthy of redemption.

She doesn't explain what she means, disappearing through the door without a backwards glance. Her henchman remains rooted in place, arms crossed over his chest, his stance wide as though he half expects Cas to break free of his bonds and try for escape.

The thought has crossed his mind. Jimmy, however, was never designed for such heroics. No amount of struggling will loosen Meg's bonds. Better, then, to turn his thoughts to figuring this out.

Cas' knowledge of the years leading to Dean's time in hell are highly abridged and mostly limited to Dean and his linear timeline. Dean was his charge, not small town South Dakota, so he has no idea what Meg meant when she said guinea pigs. The picture gets a little clearer when she returns, a man trailing behind her with the gait of a mindless soldier. He's not a demon--nothing curls beneath his skin--but he's tainted all the same, thick black ooze pulsing through his veins. Cas tears his gaze away, and finds Meg watching him intently.

"You know, you're really starting to fascinate me," she says, coming to stand alongside his chair. Cas has to crane his neck to keep her in his field of vision. The man remains by the door, Meg's henchman at his side.

"Are you a psychic? You're too old to be one of ours." She squats down beside him, turned so that they're both facing the door; the man. "What do you see when you look at him?" Clearly she didn't miss Cas' reaction.

"Disease," Cas says without hesitation. There's no point trying for subterfuge. It's never been his strong suit.

A quick glance in Meg's direction suggests she's delighted. Across the room, the man is rolling up his sleeve. Pieces begin falling into place. Cas is surprised he didn't figure it out sooner.

Croatoan. Not quite a year from now Dean and Sam will run into it in Oregon. Cas has heard the story--thought Oregon was their first test, but of course they wouldn't risk exposing Sam without first running a trial. The people huddled together in the other room really are guinea pigs.

This is how Lucifer means to conquer the planet. A war fought not with swords but microbes, the slow conquering of billions of people. It's been so long since Lucifer was even a concern that Cas had almost forgotten.

He knows very little of that planned future, Dean reluctant to share his brief glimpse of the place. He knows at least their intended timeline, and, more importantly, he knows he's immune, grace or no grace. Meg, it would appear, does not.

She stands in one fluid motion, tiny knife coming to her hand. Cas makes a show of struggling--difficult knowing he's in no immediate danger. That'll come after, once they realize their plan hasn't worked; once they start to question why he's not infected.

Still, he's convincing enough that Meg calls over her henchman, who pins Cas firmly in place. He couldn't struggle now if he wanted to, which he rather does, the stench of the demon triggering his most base instinct. There was a time, not so long ago, when Cas would have fought simply for the sake of fighting--would have died rather than allow a demon to violate his vessel. Now Cas merely endures Meg's cutting with a grimace--genuine--the white-hot flare of pain a welcome distraction from the ache of his missing grace. Bright red pools against the sleeve of Cas' shirt, the cut on his shoulder made with near surgical precision.

Meg steps back to admire her handiwork.

Satisfied with what she sees, she hands the knife to the man, who promptly cuts his forearm, scarlet pooling in place of black. The stench of sulfur fills the room. Cas suppresses a snarl.

Feigning panic is difficult, though he gives it his all. Dean would undoubtedly roll his eyes, call Cas a terrible actor, but Meg doesn't appear to notice. She watches the proceedings with rapt fascination, Croat blood dripping from the man's arm, into Cas' wound. It lasts only a few moments, long enough to ensure infection, and then the man is retreating, rolling down his sleeve while Meg's henchman kneels behind Cas' chair.

"You're letting me go?" Cas says, genuinely surprised when the demon begins loosening his bonds.

Meg smiles, wide enough to reveal the sharp edges of her teeth.

"Of course," she says. "You're hardly a threat. Not when there are innocent people in the line of fire."

As thinly veiled threats goes, hers is rather thick. Cas nods, well aware of what she isn't saying. Their plan, it seems, is to release him into the population--a neatly contained population--and then wait for him to turn. It's been a long time since Cas could claim his faith, and yet this, choosing him of all people, it feels strangely like divine intervention.

How long, he wonders, will they wait before deeming their experiment a failure?

The demon who brought him here brings him back, no word of explanation for the cut on his shoulder, or his extended absence. Back with the others, several people eye him curiously, others with outright distrust. This is a small, close-knit community. These people know each other, and likely don't trust outsiders. The demons amongst them are wearing their friends, unchanged as far as they're concerned. Only Cas is a variable. Meg was right not to worry. Nothing Cas says or does will convince these people of the danger they're in, not when a radiation leak is far, far more probable than demon possession.

Perhaps not divine intervention after all.

Finding a spare patch of wall, away from prying eyes, Cas calculates his next move.

IX.

Dean packs with urgency he doesn't understand. Cas, the so-called angel, should mean nothing to him, and yet the frantic thundering of his heart suggests otherwise, Dean teetering on the edge of panic.

It's exhaustion, he tells himself. Bone weary tiredness, the kind that can only be cured with uninterrupted sleep. How long has it been now? Days? A week? The last thing they need is an all-night drive to Bobby's. A couple of hours, maybe a decent breakfast and maybe then they'll make some sense of this.

He doesn't think his future self will appreciate the suggestion.

Sam, who's already packed and is standing by the door, looks more alert than Dean would have thought possible. He's wearing his doe-eyed introspective look, the one Dean's come to associate with serious, at times philosophical, conversations. Nothing they have time for at the moment.

"Just fucking say it already," Dean grunts, stuffing the last of his shirts into his bag. Sam's expression shifts, hope flaring in his eyes. It's an expression Dean hasn't seen in far, far too long.

"Angels," Sam says, like the word alone should explain everything he's feeling. Dean should have known.

"Listen," he says, tentatively, like they're kids again and Dean's stuck explaining why Santa Claus never managed to find them at any of their hotels. "I'm just saying, I don't know what this guy did or said to make me believe he's an angel, but I promise you, Sam, he's not."

And there's the look. The wounded puppy dog look Sam likes to pull out whenever Dean inadvertently hurts his feelings. There are times, far too many to count, when Dean really, really hates himself.

"Have you considered the possibility that this guy didn't need to say or do anything, that maybe he really is an angel?"

Trust Sam to counter logic with pragmatism. Ironically, he would have made a damned good lawyer. Dean still scoffs.

"So you believe in angels now?" he asks. Sam frowns.

"You don't?"

He's not expecting the question. They haven't really discussed religion: or faith, or anything that might cover angels under its heading. Dean just assumed they were on the same page.

"You're joking, right? I mean, come on, in all the years we've been hunting, have you ever even met someone who's seen an angel?"

He's too tired for this, frustration quickly becoming annoyance. Dean runs a hand through his hair, careful to avoid the still gaping wound at his temple. Belatedly it occurs to him he ought to change its dressing. Too late for that now. Sam's staring at him like he's grown two heads.

"After everything we've seen, everything we've done, you're just going to dismiss angels?"

Damn right he is, because if there are angels then what the hell good are they? Why aren't they helping the people who need them?

"I'm sorry, Sam, but it's bullshit. There's no God, no angels. Just random chaos."

As soon as he says it he wishes he could take it back. Sam doesn't look crestfallen. He looks disappointed, like Dean has personally let him down. It's nothing Dean ever wanted to see reflected in Sam's gaze. He'd give anything to take it back.

He doesn't get the chance, a sharp knock startling them both, his future self shouting a gruff _get a move on_ through the door. Sam grimaces. Dean deflates. He catches Sam's eye only briefly, offering a silent promise to finish the conversation some other time. Sam merely shakes his head and then turns towards the door. Dean follows him from the room.

Outside, the air holds crisp uncertainty, like winter can't decide if it wants to linger or submit to spring. Here and there dots of snow still cover the landscape, most of stained ugly grey, its melt revealing piles of forgotten trash. Dean inhales sharp ice crystals into his lungs and stares across the parking lot, to where his future self is comfortably seated behind the wheel of the Impala.

Hell fucking no.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says, and starts for the car.

His future self has the window rolled down, like he knew Dean was going to argue. The second Dean reaches his side he shoots Dean a hard stare, hand coming up to forestall any objection Dean might offer.

"We ain't arguing about this," he says. "You haven't slept in days. There is no way in hell I'm letting you drive."

He says it the way Dad might, not a barked command, but cold certainty, like arguing is pointless and he can't be bothered to waste his breath. Dean balks. If anyone asks, he'll call it a bristle.

"You ain't driving my car," Dean says, cutting off only because Sam's arrived and is watching the two of them like he half expects to have to break up a fight.

The other him keys the ignition. The bottom of Dean's stomach drops out from beneath him. He brings a hand to his right hip; pats the set of keys sitting in his pocket.

"I'm gonna make this simple for you," the other Dean says over the roar of the engine. He catches Dean's eye then, hard-lined stare nothing Dean's ever seen reflected in the mirror.

"Get in, or I'm leaving without you."

There is no doubt he means it. Dean knows himself well--can recognize his bluffs when he sees them and this isn't a bluff. Cursing under his breath, Dean shoots his future self a glare, and then moves around to the passenger side door.

It leaves Sam to spill into the backseat, his long legs sprawling across two foot wells. Dean glances over his shoulder only long enough to offer an apologetic smile, some of their earlier tension dissipating. Dean--the other Dean--doesn't wait for either of them to settle. He tosses the car into drive and tears out of the parking lot, Dean wincing at the sound of Baby struggling to change gears.

X. (Dean)

They drive. A long damned time. Too damned long when God-only knows where Cas is or what they're doing to him.

Dean hates this. He really, really does.

He's sick of losing the people he loves. He's sick of having to tear apart earth--heaven, hell, purgatory--to find them. Why the fuck can't they just stay in one place?

Dealing with his younger counterpart is more difficult than he imagined--though he's honestly surprised his younger self caved as quickly as he did, Dean not expecting to win the Impala without a fight.

She's not the Impala Dean's used to, this perhaps her original incarnation. Dean can't remember. He's lost count of how many times he's rebuilt her--sometimes from the ground up. Driving her dredges up feelings of nostalgia. It strikes him then that, somewhere out there, his Dad's alive.

Bobby's alive.

Dean has no idea how he feels about seeing Bobby, not after all this time--not after everything that's happened. They're kind of short on choices, though, so Dean pushes aside mostly-healed grief and points the car in his direction.

And drives.

By his estimates his future self hasn't slept in at least four days. Possible longer. He's still not sleeping, sitting solemnly in the passenger seat, staring at Dean like he wants to chew him a new one for not easing Baby around the corners.

He also still has questions, which Dean can appreciate, though whatever they are he's not asking. Sam's sprawled across the backseat, out cold. He's probably drooling, something he'll deny he does to his dying days. For the first time since all of this began, Dean cracks a smile.

Truth is, he forgot about all of this, back when it was just him and Sam, looking for Dad. Everything seemed so heavy and urgent back then, but looking back, Dean would give anything to re-live those simpler times, back when their futures were still largely unwritten, the weight of the world not yet set upon their shoulders. Dean wants to grab his younger self by the shoulders and shake him, hard, tell him not to waste time fighting with the people he cares about. It's a lesson Dean took far too long to learn.

Instead he stares straight ahead, waiting patiently for his younger self to doze off, lulled to unconsciousness by the gentle thrumming of the open road.

It makes for a silent drive, Dean navigating the route to Bobby's almost on instinct. There's nowhere in America he can't find, but driving to Bobby's is like driving home, Dean's stomach twisting into knots, a lump forming in his throat. He clears it twice, so distracted he almost misses it.

It's still dark when he pulls through Odessa, so it's not easy to spot, and certainly it's nothing he would have noticed under any other circumstance, but there's only so many motels along this stretch of highway and Dean's fairly certain he's counted at least twice as many decked out cars.

Just married isn't exactly something you tie to your bumper for shits and giggles.

Bobby's house is still miles ahead, and Cas is god knows where, but Dean still pulls off at the next exit, back tracking down the side streets until he finds the first motel. He parks the Impala next to a maroon LeBaron, white pompoms stuck to its frame, a line of cans hanging off its back bumper. The decorations are more than a little worse for wear. Down the lot, a yellow Camaro is similarly decorated.

Cutting the engine jolts his younger self out of sleep. There's a brief moment of almost embarrassing flailing before he gets himself oriented. Dean waits for him to take in his surroundings before speaking.

"Notice anything interesting?" he says.

It's Sam who answers, his voice thick with sleep, though he sounds marginally more coherent than Dean's counterpart.

"Wedding convention?" he says. The three of them exchange a glance. Not likely.

"Come on," the younger Dean says as they exit the car. "Don't you think you're reaching? People do get married, you know." There's no conviction in his tone. Dean still counters.

"We've passed four hotels and everyone one of them had at least one decorated car in its lot. That sound like coincidence to you?"

It doesn't, but his younger self still bristles. Now he's arguing for the sake of arguing, embarrassed at having fallen asleep and frustrated by following Dean's lead. Dean gets it, he really does--would have done the exact same thing at that age--but they don't have time for this right now. Dean stops just outside the motel's front office, pivoting until they're standing face to face, far too close for comfort.

His younger self swallows.

"I told you there'd be signs, and it's possible this is one, so we're going to take ten minutes out of our day to check into it, because I'm not here to argue with you. I'm here to find Cas."

He deflates as he says it, realizing then he's letting his own frustration--his own worry--colour his reactions. He doesn't want to fight with his younger self. He just wants to find Cas and go home.

"This is what you meant when you said miracles?"

It comes out with less scorn than Dean suspects his younger self intended. There's even an edge of genuine curiosity. Dean relaxes his stance.

"Maybe not miracles. More like random bending of chance. Angels..." This time his younger self does scoff, but Dean presses on. "They're not really what you think, but they are powerful, and displacing one would have consequences. Cas..." He pauses then, forced to clear the lump from his throat, this one having nothing to do with Bobby. His younger self's features fall, sympathetic understanding reflected in his gaze.

"Cas tried explaining it once, but it involved graphs, so I kind of tuned out."

He smiles then, the memory a fond one. His younger self retreats a step, both an apology and surrender.

"This will take two minutes," he says, gesturing to the office.

To his surprise, Sam follows him inside, still tentatively hopeful, like word of angels has renewed his faith in the world. Dean doesn't particularly want to disappoint him, so he keeps his mouth shut, crossing worn linoleum tiles to reach front counter where a twenty-something year old sits leafing through a magazine.

He glances up only briefly, and then reaches over his shoulder to pull a key marked 'king' off a hook on the back wall. Dean shakes his head. He'd forgotten about this, too.

"Don't need a room," Dean says, pulling out an ATF badge. He's not dressed for it, but the kid still sits up a little straighter, eyeing the badge like he's half afraid a pair of handcuffs will follow. The red of his eyes are reason enough for his paranoia.

"Relax, not interested in the drugs. What I am interested in are a few cars in your lot." He gestures over his shoulder, to where the Camaro is visible out the window. "Nothing personal, but this ain't exactly honeymoon central."

Not even close if the office is any indication. The front counter's chipped, several burn marks spaced unevenly along its length, while a bucket sits on the floor by the front door, the steady drip-drip of leaking water--especially odd since it's not raining--echoing throughout the room. The entire place smells like piss and pot and day-old dinner. Places like this charge by the hour. They're not romantic getaways.

"Tell me about it," the kid says, grinning, instantly at ease. "But there must be something in the water cause the last two months it's been non-stop wedding season." He leans across the counter then, like talking to the ATF has given him a sense of self importance, like he's a god-damned spy imparting sensitive information. Dean fights very hard not to roll his eyes.

"At this point, I don't think there's anyone left in town to get married."

That's when Dean spots in, band of silver looped around the guy's ring finger. It's pretty much all the confirmation he needs, Dean offering a polite smile before turning back to face Sam.

To his surprise, Sam doesn't seem satisfied. He moves into the guy's space, bad cop to Dean's good. It's so startling Dean almost gives the game away. Instead he fights to school his features, hanging back to watch Sam work.

"When did this start, these weddings?"

The kid arches an eyebrow. His eyes roll into the back of his head, his lip disappearing behind his teeth. He brings a hand up to his chest, ticking off each finger like he's keeping count.

"About two months ago?" he eventually says. He doesn't sound particularly certain.

Sam nods. "You got a register from two months ago?"

The kid looks at him like he's crazy, like this is hardly the kind of place to keep track of their patrons. Dean gets what Sam's doing, but it's hardly necessary. He sets a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, we're good," he says, all but dragging Sam from the room.

Outside, Sam looks ready to argue, furious like Dean hasn't seen him in years. It momentarily takes Dean aback, that is before his past self arrives, demanding to know what happened inside.

"Cas has been here," Dean says, shooting Sam a pointed look. "I'm guessing he was probably heading for Bobby's, though why he didn't get there..."

Dean can think of a thousand reasons Cas might change his mind. It also doesn't surprise him Cas' first instinct was to seek out familiar help. What changed, he wonders? And where is he now?

"Come on," he says, heading back to the car. This time he claims the backseat, content to let the other Dean take them the rest of the way. He's not sure if he feels better or worse about finding Cas. At least now he's got a pattern, something he can trace, but he's still no closer to finding him and Dean's starting to get a little worried Cas may be running out of time.


	5. Chapter 5

XI.

It's a straight line from Odessa to Bobby's, the specter of a future he's not ready to acknowledge looming in the backseat. On his right, Sam stares contemplatively out the passenger-side window. Over his shoulder, his counterpart stares straight ahead.

Every so often Dean catches his gaze in the rear view mirror, and each time he's met with open worry and lingering unease. Is it Cas, he wonders, finding himself oddly concerned with Cas' well-being. Or is it something else, his future self reluctant since he heard Bobby's name.

Something sharp and ugly twists in Dean's stomach at the thought, his breath momentarily catching, his vision growing dim. He should have let Sam drive. It's too late for that now, so instead he shakes his head and presses on the accelerator, long line of highway disappearing beneath the front grill. He's counting the miles now, familiar landmarks ending with the arches of Bobby's salvage yard.

Dean passes beneath them and pulls to a stop next to one of Bobby's working trucks. The glare of the mid-morning sun reflects off its windshield.

For a long minute, no one moves.

Tension Dean's not prepared to face radiates from the backseat, while a glance to his right shows Sam wearing his disappointment openly. Dean doesn't know where to start. How do you bridge a gap as fundamental as faith? How do you face a future that hasn't happened? 

He opts for clearing his throat.

It draws Sam's attention, the strain between them lessening when Dean offers a faint, apologetic smile. He nods towards the house.

"You wanna give Bobby a head's up?" he asks.

He's half expecting an argument, surprised then when Sam merely nods. He slips from the car with only a brief glance to the backseat, knowing instinctively the request Dean hasn't voiced. Dean waits until he's through the front door before turning to face his counterpart. The other Dean waits patiently, no doubt expecting this conversation.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" Dean asks, still not entirely sure he wants an answer.

"Not really," his older self replies, reluctance, but not a firm dismissal.

"It's Bobby, isn't it?" Dean says, nodding towards the house.

Echoing silence is all the answer he needs. The lump in his throat doubles in size.

"How'd it happen?"

For a minute, he thinks his future self might actually answer, his expression softening, tight lines of grief appearing in the corners of his eyes. Dean almost stops him, not sure he wants to know, but it's a moot point, the other Dean's resolve hardening, his walls sliding firmly back into place.

"It doesn't matter," he says, and now it's dismissal, the point punctuated by him leaving the car. Dean curses, and then scrambles to catch up.

He stops his future self on the front stairs, hand darting out to catch him around the shoulder. Tightly corded muscles betray his tension. Dean spins him around.

"I have a right to know," he says, not bothering to hide how small he sounds--how afraid. He future self deflates.

His gaze remains hollow, empty, Bobby's passing is an open wound. Dean wonders how long ago it happened, whether he's intruding on this Dean's grief.

"Don't you think if I thought there was a chance to save him, I would?" his future self asks. It's not entirely a question, but Dean still nods.

"You can't change the past, and believe me, I've tried. It is what it is, and it's gonna be what it's gonna be and there's nothing I can do to change that, so just let it go. Appreciate the damned time you've got."

The words come out a whisper, but there's enough force behind them to send Dean staggering back a step. He barely catches himself, regaining his balance just in time to watch his future self disappear through the front door. Fuck, Dean thinks before darting up the stairs, into Bobby's front room where Bobby and Sam are staring at them like Sam didn't just spent the past twenty-four plus hours in their company, like he hasn't just warned Bobby of their coming.

Dean has about thirty odd seconds to process the scene before he's struck in the face with something cold and wet. 

"The hell," he says, water dripping from his nose. Bobby stares back at him, open flask in his hand. Dean shoots Sam a glare, surprised to find Sam similarly armed, Dean's counterpart equally wet. Sam's grimace is only somewhat apologetic.

"Can't be too careful," Bobby says with a shrug. He tucks the flask back into his pocket, then nods towards Dean's sleeve. Something silver glints in his hand. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Seriously? You don't think we've already been through this?" he asks, because how stupid does Bobby think he is? Still, he rolls up his sleeve, as does his counterpart, oddly relieved when Bobby's knife produces the same red line on both of them.

~*~

"Explain this again," Bobby says when the introductions are out of the way, the four of them now seated around Bobby's kitchen table, three empty shot-glasses spread unevenly between them. Only Dean's future self has restrained, Dean not entirely sure what to make of that. Bobby's eyeing Dean's future self with outright suspicion.

"Like I said," Dean says, earning the full scrutiny of Bobby's attention. "He just appeared, out of nowhere and in a blaze of light. Said he used a blood spell to send himself back in time. You ever hear of something like that?"

He doesn't meet his future self's gaze, though he can feel the weight of it. This isn't what he came here to do, though he no doubt understands the reason for it. Bobby doesn't answer right away, his expression far-off, like the answer's sitting on the tip of his tongue.

"I think maybe I've read something on the subject, but I could have sworn it was generational, father to son, son to father, that sort of thing, plus the ingredient list was all wonky. I just dismissed the whole thing as a hoax..."

Dean, the other Dean, clears his throat. Collectively the table turns to stare in his direction. Dean can't help but notice he's still avoiding Bobby's eye.

"There are variations, and the ingredients aren't easy to come by, but it's doable," he says. Across the table, Bobby nods.

"Yeah, maybe. I mean, technically anything's possible. What I want to know is why? Sam mentioned you were looking for someone, but that's all I got out of him before he started rambling about angels so..."

He offers a helpless shrug, the sight so comical Dean's tempted to laugh. Instead he turns his attention back to his future self, who's now calmly meeting Bobby's gaze, soft smile playing across his lips.

"That call you got yesterday morning," he says, earning Bobby--and the table's--full attention. "His name is Castiel, and he's an angel."

Bobby responds with outright disbelief, his expression oddly countered by Sam's eager sincerity. Dean shakes his head. He's on Bobby's side here, but he still wishes he could share Sam's faith. Faith, he suspects, would make this a hell of a lot easier.

"Angels," Bobby says after a moment, like someone's asked for tea in place of beer. The other Dean's gaze doesn't waver. It's Sam who answers.

"Have you ever heard of anyone meeting one? I mean, there has to be accounts, lore…" He gestures to the piles and piles of books surrounding them, sometimes stacked two rows deep, every available inch of space filled with the vastness of Bobby's collection. In tentative agreement, Bobby inclines his head.

"Lore, yeah, there's tons of it, but firsthand accounts... I mean, unless we're talking about the Bible I ain't come across anything sourcing angels."

"But the lore had to come from somewhere," Sam presses. Bobby shrugs, somewhat apologetically.

"Usually, but in this case I can't connect any of it to a source. What that means..."

"It doesn't matter what it means," Dean's counterpart says, clearly not in the mood for a theological discussion. Dean can't say he blames him. "All that matters is finding Cas, so can you trace the call?"

Dean's not sure he's ever spoken to Bobby the way his future self just did, scathing demand overlaid with mounting frustration and annoyance. Dean winces, half expecting Bobby to chew the other Dean a new hide for forgetting his manners. He doesn't, instead holding up two hands, tactile apology Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Bobby give. In hindsight, coming here probably wasn't the best of ideas. They're going to owe Bobby big for this one.

"Look, if I can help you find this... angel of yours, then I will, but the call was too short to trace, so we're gonna have to try something else."

It's not the answer Dean was expecting and it shows. Dean braces for tension. Instead his future self deflates, weary exhaustion settling over his features. His gaze darts briefly to the whiskey, still set on the table between them, before finally returning to meet Bobby's gaze.

"What do you suggest?" he asks.

 

XII. (Sam)

They stayed here sometimes, when they were kids, their father off hunting things too dangerous for a couple of children. Sam probably shouldn't find that funny, but he does, their whole childhood hovering on the verge of lunacy. Still, Bobby was like a second father to them, an inviting home where they were safe--as safe as anyone could be living the life they lived--where, for a little while, Sam could pretend they were normal.

And okay, maybe normal kids don't sit around reading what is easily the most comprehensive collection of supernatural lore on the face of the planet, but normal is relative, and in their world a weekend at Bobby's was pretty damned normal.

He's read almost everything in Bobby's collection, or at least thought he had. Bobby has a way of surprising him. He also has a way of making books materialize out of thin air. Sam's currently scouring everything Bobby has that references angels.

They're looking for omens. Angelic omens.

He's giddy just thinking about it, and Sam can't remember the last time he was giddy. But angels. It's everything he's believed in, everything he's prayed to all rolled up in walking, talking proof. Plus, if there are angels, then there's a heaven and maybe that means Jess is somewhere out there, happy. Safe.

Sam flips a page.

And stops, because so far nothing he's read has included any pictures, but this one does. The image of a man fills the page, his hand outstretched, a pair of giant wings unfurling behind him while a glowing ring of light encircles his head.

It's not the picture that gives Sam pause. It's the text beneath it, Cassiel eerily close to Dean's Castiel.

Could it be the same angel, he wonders. There's not a lot written about him, only a handful of paragraphs, text lifted straight from the Kabbalah. He is the angel of temperance, the angel of solitude. The angel of tears. Sam stares at the picture.

He's tempted to show Dean, except that he doesn't think Dean's counterpart would appreciate it, and it's not like it helps them, so instead he sets the book aside and reaches for the next in his pile. It's getting harder and harder to suppress his frustration. The research is interesting, but it's getting them nowhere.

Dean, if his raised voice is any indication, apparently agrees. He storms from the kitchen, arriving at the foot of Sam's couch still vibrating with anger. An embarrassingly long minute passes before Sam realizes this isn't his Dean.

"Everything okay?" he still asks, because Dean is still Dean regardless of year of origin. 

Dean--the other Dean--crumples, a display of vulnerability Sam's not sure even his Dean would let him see.

"Sorry, it's just..."

It strikes Sam then that he knows exactly what this Dean is going through. How long did they spend searching for Dad? Sam knows all too well what it's like to lose someone; to desperately need to know where they are.

Dean--his Dean--and Bobby are still in the kitchen, mapping the few omens and signs they think might be connected, nothing that requires either of their immediate attention, so...

"You want to sit?" Sam asks, clearing a space on Bobby's couch. Dean--the other Dean--hesitates briefly before taking the seat.

He glances to the books on the table, and then the scrolls piled at Sam's side. "You know I've already read through all of this. You're not gonna find anything."

Sam would tend to agree, but that's not what pings his interest. "You've read through all of this?" he says, gesturing to mess sprawled around them.

Dean looks offended.

"I do read, you know," he says, though there's no bite in his tone. He runs a hand through his hair, expression somewhat apologetic.

"It was when we first met Cas. He told me he was an Angel of the Lord, and I didn't believe him, so we spent a few days doing research."

"And?" Sam asks.

"And he's an angel, but beyond a bunch of lore you'd learn in Sunday school, nothing."

This isn't a conversation Sam ever expected to have with Dean, his curiosity fully piqued. He leans forward, twisting so that he's half facing the other Dean, unable to hide his growing interest. 

"How'd you even meet an angel?" he asks, immediately realizing it was the wrong thing to say. Dean goes rigid, his expression growing dark. He shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter," he says, his tone firm, the topic no longer open to debate. Sam concedes with an apologetic smile. Dean accepts it with a nod.

"We're running out of time," Dean says, gesturing to the sprawling mess around them. "And this isn't working." His entire being radiates impatience. Sam can't really blame him. There's got to be an easier way.

And maybe there is, Sam thinks, his mind already spinning. Omens are tricky, because even if they did know exactly what to look for, finding it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. The call, on the other hand, is their magnet, and while it might have been too short for Bobby to trace, that doesn't mean it isn't traceable. Sam digs through the papers on his right, coming up with his laptop.

On his left, Dean has gone still. He's watching Sam like he's half expecting Sam to pull a miracle out of his pocket. Sam finds himself oddly moved by this Dean's faith.

"Maybe," Sam says, thinking aloud, "we're approaching this from the wrong angle."

A quick glance up tells him Dean--his Dean--and Bobby have entered the room, the three of them now staring at him expectantly. Sam clears his throat.

"Maybe instead of looking for an angel, we should be looking for a man."

He's confused them, he can tell, but a few keystrokes later and it doesn't matter. Hacking police scanner logs is alarmingly easily. Grinning, he spins the laptop in their direction.

"We've been trying to track angelic omens, but the police are already tracking Jimmy Novak," he says, somewhat embarrassed they didn't think of this sooner.

Dean--his Dean--shakes his head. "He charged the call," he says, sounding dumbfounded. Sam catches his eye.

"Phone call's not exactly a quarter these days, especially not long distance, and Bobby didn't mention anything about it being collect."

It leaves them with two problems, unfortunately. One, they don't have a precise location, just the call centre that ran the charge, and two, they're not the only ones with the information. The police are bound to follow up on a missing persons' investigation.

"Back up, am I missing something? Who the hell is Jimmy Novak?" Bobby interjects. Sam curses himself for forgetting that part of the story. Fortunately it's Dean--the other Dean--who answers.

"Jimmy is Cas. Or rather, Cas is Jimmy. It's complicated and it doesn't matter. What does matter is tracing where that call came from. I'm assuming if we find the call centre we can get a hold of their logs, come up with a physical location?"

He's already moving, off the couch and halfway to the door like now that they have a plan Cas is only a short drive away. Sam's seen Dean like this a few times, though always in response to Dad. It's strange watching him fret over someone else, even if this isn't the Dean he knows--even if the thing he's fretting over is an Angel of the Lord.

"Ideally, yeah, we should be able to get a location, but we're going to need to get inside. They don't exactly publish that information."

Sam stands as he speaks, already tucking his laptop back into its bag. It doesn't take long for the others to follow, scant minutes passing before the four of them are back outside.

"So where we heading?" Bobby asks once they're in the car. His presence provides a comforting counterpoint to what until now has been a somewhat strained journey.

Sam catches his eye over the seatback. "Rapid City, South Dakota," he says.

The other Dean sits up a little straighter. His Dean revs the engine.

 

XIII. (Castiel)

Cas isn't the only outsider.

There are four others, rough dressed men standing apart from the others. If Cas had to guess he'd say they were hunters. Not the Dean and Sam kind. There are dozens of cabins in the area, not many occupied this time of year, but there were bound to be a few. Azazel wouldn't have left anything to chance. He'd have cleared everything and everyone inside his given perimeter, local or otherwise.

They're not exactly his best bet--they saw his return and have been eyeing him suspiciously ever since--but unfortunately right now they're his only bet, so Cas starts towards them.

He's not good at this--people skills have never been his strong suit--so rather than fumble his way through an introduction, Cas opts for a direct assault. He lets momentum carry him just inside the men's space, careful to ensure none of Meg's demons are around to notice. The men stiffen, then exchange glances, as though unsure how to proceed in the face of Cas' boldness. Cas waits. Eventually one of the men steps forward. He carries himself with the same firm confidence Cas has come to associate with Dean.

"You need something?" he asks, gruff and far too dominant. Cas recognizes this as fear, but unlike the others this man isn't afraid of what's happening outside.

"Yes," Cas answers. There's no point trying for diplomacy. He waits only for the man to regain his equilibrium before adding, "I need an exit strategy."

He has their attention, though that was never in doubt. What he needs is their trust. Trusting them is easy--they're human, none of them possessed or infected--but they have no reason to trust him. Doing so would require a leap of faith. He's rather counting on what's left of his residual grace to sway events in his favour.

"You're looking for a way out?" the man says, still suspicious. Cas nods.

"There is also a decided possibility those in charge will... um, object to my leaving."

It's actually rather more complicated than that. Cas' leaving would undoubtedly trigger a series of events Cas would rather not trigger. At the moment, they think him infected and are more than happy to wait on his turning. His leaving runs the risk of them accelerating their time table, so he doesn't so much want an exit strategy as he does a stand in, someone to get out in his place; someone to bring back the cavalry.

He'll get to that in a minute. For now it's hard for anyone to remain suspicious in the face of brute honesty. Cas both knows this and uses it to his advantage. It was as expected, the man startling, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open. His companions appear equally as gobsmacked.

"You know something about what's going on?" one of the men asks. Cas glances briefly in his direction. A stout fellow, with beady eyes and a slick tongue. He reminds Cas vaguely of Crowley. Cas swallows associated distaste. The man is undoubtedly a perfectly nice human.

"Yes," Cas answers, simply. The men continue to stare, expectant. Cas glances briefly over his shoulder, but none of Meg's demons have returned. They undoubtedly think their guinea pigs well contained.

"It's a virus," Cas continues, careful to avoid mention of demons. Where humans balk at theology, they will often readily accept conspiracy.

Not that it dissuades their suspicion. On the contrary.

"You know this how?" the same man asks, a perfectly legitimate question, but not one Cas is prepared to answer, not truthfully, anyway. He glances again over his shoulder.

Their gathering has drawn more than one set of eyes, but fortunately none of them black. Still, Cas takes a step forward, forcing the men back, into the shadows and away from the light. When he speaks again, it's under his breath, the men forced to lean into his space to hear.

"I don't," he says. Subterfuge is not his strong point, but the men are so eager for an explanation they don't notice. "Not entirely. While I was... in their custody, I overheard two of them talking. They said something about guinea pigs and, um, rates of infection."

He emphasizes the last point, rather proud of himself for bending the truth. It works as intended, the men's suspicion fading, replaced by shared worry and a willingness for action. They still don't trust him, not entirely, but they do believe him, and for now that's all Cas needs.

"So we talking government or Big Pharm?" one of the men asks. Cas frowns, confused.

"Why would..." he begins, but thinks better of it. He cannot gain their trust if they see him as something other.

"Never mind. What we need is a way out. Do any of you know where we are?"

He hates that he doesn't know. They brought him in unconscious, and without the benefit of his grace he has no frame of reference for location. All he can feel is the press of earth and disorienting, endless darkness.

Surprisingly, one of the men speaks up, the same one who stepped forward when Cas first arrived. There's compassion in his gaze, that and a willingness to help. Cas is tempted to ask his name, but dubs him not-quite Dean instead.

"I know the area," he says. His companions shoot him curious frowns. He shrugs.

"My grandfather used to bring me and my brother hunting up here when we were kids. We're in the Black Hills, just outside Nemo. Everyone around knows about the place. It's a throw away from the Cold War. They brought us down the main ramp, but there were lots of uniforms standing around, most of them armed."

Demons, Cas doesn't say, but he's fairly certain there'll be a least a few of them standing sentry. They're not getting out the way they came in. The only good news is they're not far from where they took him.

"You know of any alternative exits?" the Crowley look-alike asks. Not-quite Dean shakes his head.

"Sorry," he says.

"I might know a way," Cas says, hating that he can't offer a certainty. The men still collectively turn to stare at him, hope flaring in more than one pair of eyes.

"Early, when they took me out, they brought me down a long hall and into a storage room. But it sounded like we were close to the air filtration system."

Not -quite Dean nods. "And where there's an air filtration system, there are surface vents.

"Exactly," Cas says, "though we're not going to get down that hall unobserved."

Manipulation isn't exactly hardwired into an angel's code of ethics. Zachariah would undoubtedly disagree, as might Uriel, but however they were wired it's not something Cas has ever been comfortable with. It's certainly nothing he's ever been good at. He's still rather proud at having maneuvered this conversation exactly to the point he wanted it to go. The men are now watching him intently.

"What do you suggest?" Crowley Jr. asks.

Cas glances over his shoulder, waits a beat, and then answers.

"One of us make for the air shaft while the others create a distraction."

Crowley Jr. scoffs. Some of the men's suspicion returns.

"So that's it, huh? We provide you with a distraction long enough for you to escape? What about us?"

It's a fair question, but not at all what Cas intended.

"It can't be me," he says. "As I said, they're watching me. It has to be one of you, and when you get out you'll need to find some friends of mine. They can help stop this."

He can tell they're desperate for more information, the little Cas has given them vexing in its incompleteness. It's all he can offer, though, not unless he wants to get into angels and demons and the battle for the planet's final rule. They're definitely not ready for that, so Cas pins his hope on a leap of faith. He catches not-quite Dean's eyes. The man nods.

"I'll go. Just tell me what I need to do," he says with complete and utter sincerity. His companions balk, but none of them object. Cas breathes a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies on the lateness of this chapter. It has been a hectic month.


End file.
